Two Pioneers and an Audience.

“The Mother sits beside the bay,
The bay goes down to wed the sea,
And gone ye are, on every tide
Wherever men and waters be!”

On the Sunday night following the Game the smoking-room at the Rho house held the greater part of the Chapter. As a rule, there were not so many loafing there Sunday nights; that time was generally given either to sentiment in other places, or to digging out Monday’s work upstairs, while the fire burned for the two or three who seemed never to have any work more important than magazine reading or solitaire. To-night, however, nearly every one was gathered there, for two “old men” were visiting.

These old men had been out of college for two whole years. One of them was Ralph Shirlock. If you were at college in his days you knew him by sight, at least, though you were the mossiest dig that ever kept bright till morning the attic window of a prof’s house on the Row. If you have come up to College since then, and are sufficiently posted to know that there have been other annuals before this one just issued by your friends the Juniors, you have found his picture or his name on every other page of the earlier editions. Harry Rice, who came with him, was not half so well known, save to the Faculty and the circle of the chapter. He was doing very well in business, people said, better than Shirlock, probably. Rice was a keen fellow, the new men could see that at a glance; but they did not put an arm about him instinctively in the after-dinner stroll, as they did about Shirlock.

The two alumni had spent Sunday calling upon the Faculty in Palo Alto and the Row, and in post-mortems with some of the football men in Encina. After dinner, the fellows sat out on the porch, strumming mandolins and singing. Shirlock had been a star on the Glee Club two years before, and he sang again the songs the college hummed after him in those days, while the upper-classmen looked at the Freshmen with a “now-you-see-what-you’ve-joined” expression, or nudged each other reminiscently, until the live-oaks in the pasture almost blended with the long shadows under them, and hoarse-throated frogs were tuning up in the irrigating ditches. Then they formed four abreast and went down for the mail, humming a march song and lifting their hats in concert to Professor Stillwell and his wife, smiling from their porch. At the post-office the lines broke and the entire body, except the alumni, struggled into the over-crowded room ("the daily press” Pellams called it). This was hardly necessary, since one man could have opened the fraternity box and distributed the letters; but this is a distinct charm of Sunday evening at the post-office. Moreover, you never know who may be standing inside, and if you have forgotten to arrange things ahead it is sometimes well to be first.

The pleasant uncertainty of the evening mail being over, the fellows mixed a while with the sundry groups about the low red building, then joined forces again, and marched once around the Quad, arm in arm, a line of sixteen, while Bob Duncan, who had been prepped at a military school, shouted, “Change step, march,” and “Left wheel, march,” then home together, all but two or three, who were called the “Incurables,” and who had plunged back into the shadow of the Quad for Chapel, perhaps, or some other form of Sabbath evening devotion. This breach of hospitality the alumni forgave, made indulgent by a sweet sympathy.

Alas for you, old worshippers at empty shrines! Those divine presences are gone, new and unknown deities queen it in the ancient temples. Go back to the hearth where some still know you and talk to the few who gather around you there, of the old days when you, too, placed your offering at celestial feet. These men of a new generation, sitting in places that once were yours, will listen indulgently to your stories of the past, and hear with patience the odious comparisons you inevitably make; they will thank you for the advice you give them, and say something pleasant about your college spirit; then in the morning when you have taken the early train back to the World, they will go down to the Quad with their books under their arms and something in their minds that is anything but your talk of the evening before; the College life will go on very much as if you had not been back, O wise fossils, and there will be new graduates going out to learn your lessons and new undergraduates who will pay no attention to them in turn. So be thankful for this brief hour before the fire, with its chat as light as the tobacco smoke floating over “old” man and Freshman lounging together, be glad of the fellowship that welcomes you, and be content.

Each couch in the smoking-room had its load of sprawling figures. The lights were out by this time and the Incurables had come back to the house and ferreted places for themselves among the tangled golf suits and ’Varsity sweaters. Duncan had a lamp on the table where he was “bossing a rabbit”; Pellams said this was the only kind of lab-work in zoology in which Bob could get credit. A pile of plates warmed before the fire where Smith was toasting crackers at the end of a sharpened stick. At the piano, Pellams was softly playing “barber shop” chords. It was all very lazy and comfortable. The alumni grew reminiscent.

“This noon while we were walking up from Palo Alto,” said Shirlock, “Mrs. Stanford passed us in her carriage, coming from Chapel, I suppose. I asked Harry if he remembered how they used to drive about the place inspecting things, when the Senator was alive.”

“Of course I do,” spoke up Rice, “it seems odd that there are so few in college now who remember them together. To you fellows, I suppose, Mrs. Stanford is the source of the University. To us who saw them stand together on the platform that day in October, ’91, it is the two always.”

“Harry, do you remember our serenade at the residence, after they returned from Washington the first time?”

“No,” answered Rice, “I remember, but I wasn’t there. We played a game somewhere that day and I stayed over and missed the fun.”

“Tell us about it, Ralph,” said Duncan, as he emptied the cubes of cheese into the chafing-dish.

“Well, you see,” said Shirlock, unbraiding himself from two affectionate under-classmen on the couch and sitting up in the light, “the story really begins with the first football game, which came off in the spring of ’92, and was ours, as every Freshman can tell you, even though he doesn’t know just what is meant by ‘Pioneers.’ The day of the game, Whittemore, the captain, got a telegram from Washington wishing us luck in our first encounter, and that afternoon we sent back answer in much the same style that Caesar used on one occasion I suppose the little man to my left here can give me the Latin words?” he added, rumpling the hair of a horizontal Freshman.

“Not long afterward the Senator and Mrs. Stanford came back from the East and someone over in the Hall proposed that we give them a welcome home. We could get a bigger demonstration there in those days than you can now, I’ll bet; you know everybody who was anybody at all lived in Encina then; that was the center of the College life, politics began and grew up there, and it was over there in the old lobby that we started the Stanford spirit. Things were great, that first year. It’s all right enough here by our own fireside, with our own little gang, but I tell you honestly if things could have lasted as they were that first year, I wouldn’t have wanted to come over here. We were all together, right in line for everything, wise or foolish.”

“It was the student body then, all right,” put in Rice, “and we had the Faculty with us too whether we were around the gridiron, where they first had it, east of the cinder path, you know, learning the yell and incidentally getting the team into condition for that 14-10, or whether we were crawling by our lonelies through the fence over in the vineyard.”

“The days of grapes,
The days of scrapes,”

sang Pellams from the piano.

“Were there any profs on that flat-car?” interrupted Duncan. He had come into College while a memory of that pioneer adventure yet lingered.

“It’s unkind to remind us of that affair! No, I don’t think there were. The Faculty had their fun later, and we put mourning wreaths on several chairs in the dining-room.”

“And you came mighty near getting a bouquet of the same kind, yourself,” said Rice.

“What was it about the flat-car?” inquired a voice from the pillows.

“Oh,” said Rice, “that was about the first of those senseless ébullitions of youth that the Shirlock person usually identified himself with. There was a flat-car standing outside Encina on the track there, just about where it turns and slopes down crosslots to the main track. This is just what Ralph and his precious gang wanted, of course; they thought it would be a bit of innocent, boyish play to have a little free railroading, so they piled on and turned her loose and slid down to Mayfield. They barely stopped the car before she switched into the main line, and they all fell off into the gopher holes along the side and made for Mayfield, red-eyed. The Faculty raised Ned when they heard about it, which was proper.”

“I hope the Freshmen will pay particular attention to Mr. Rice,” said Shirlock. “He is a noble influence to any sweet, unfolding soul. I feel that I should have escaped a great deal of enjoyable sin had I only known him better those first few weeks.”

Ralph got up for some cigarette tobacco from the skull on the mantelpiece.

“Well, the Faculty were with us in about everything,” he went on, rolling a cigarette; “many of them lived in the Hall then.”

“Yes, a number did,” put in Rice. “Do you remember, Ralph, the night that Professor Torts had his little beer-and-skittles party in his lair, and Burns, who roomed across the passage and who was the worst bummer in Encina, went down to Fessler, and complained that he couldn’t study because of the noise in that number? And Fessler forgot who roomed there and came up and gave them Tartarus through the keyhole and nearly dropped when Torts opened the door?”

“We all enjoyed that,” answered Shirlock. “Why, the profs used to come to our feeds and jolly up with the crowd. Often they were the best fun there. It’s different now.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Duncan, “they come over off and on, now. Doc Jordan was here last Sunday to dinner, and Diemann drops in sometimes; last year he came a lot.”

“Oh, they come over all right,” sighed Pellams from the piano. “I had a report to make one day. I didn’t have it done, and I bribed Ted to go down and tell Engbee I was sick in bed. I was playing cards in here when Sniffles rushed in and told me the old boy was coming up the street. I smelt danger and tumbled into bed like a six-day bicyclist, and fixed my face up with some grease paint and magnesia. Sure enough, he came in, darkly suspicious, thought he had me all right, but he found a wreck that melted him. His wife sent me a bunch of violets next morning. For my part I don’t like the Faculty for intimate friends,” and Pellams played “Comrades” with the soft pedal down.

“It’s not the same thing, though, really,” persisted Shirlock. “They may come over here to dinner or perhaps to a smoker, but it’s always Professor So-and-So; his chair is a little higher than any of yours, and he never forgets the family waiting for him in the Row; in those first days the family was in most cases beyond the Rockies, or as yet a dream, and it wasn’t always easy to pick out the professor from the jumble of story-tellers on the bed.

“Of course, it was all too good to last,” the alumnus went on thoughtfully, “and it wasn’t natural it should. We weren’t so many then. When the number increased, I suppose the relations had to change and the different cliques must separate. I’ll admit that there is more in the life now, it’s more complex, there are more institutions and more ways of having joy; but those were good old days, those first days in Encina when the crowd was one.

“I can see them now, can’t you, Harry? out on the veranda and the steps of the Hall after dinner, with the fellows playing ball on the lawn, and other men sitting up on their window-ledges. The night I started to tell you about, when we went to serenade Mr. and Mrs. Stanford, we got the mandolin fellows, the beginning of your present club, and fell in behind them and started off down the road, past the mausoleum and through the vineyard never broke ranks there, either, we were on our good behavior, besides, it was Spring and so on over to the house, where we drew up, and the mandolins played their piece, then we gave the yell it was only a few months old, that yell, but it had been loud enough to knock out a twenty-five-year-old one we met up in town not long before, and we were proud of it.

“During the pause that followed, the front door opened and the Senator stepped out on the porch; a lamp shone on his gray head and on us fellows in a big black crowd on the gravel below, looking up at him and cheering. When we stopped he said, very much as though a friend had driven up, “Gentlemen, will you come in?” and the whole two hundred of us piled over the piazza, getting a grasp of his hand as we came into the hall, and a word from Mrs. Stanford, who stood beside him. They took us into the library; we formed a hollow square, two rows deep on the sides, and the Founders came into the square and talked to us. I remember that Mrs. Stanford said, ’We were very glad, young gentlemen, to hear of your success in baseball,’ and what a chill it gave us, just convalescing from the football fever; but we forgave the mistake when she asked, a minute later, ‘Which is Mr. Clemans?’ That blushing hero with the other ten we forced into the center to be congratulated, and we sang the new song, ‘Rush the Ball Along,’ until the bric-a-brac trembled.

“When we were quiet again, the Senator talked to us informally, as though we were in reality his children as he had said we were to be. It was an earnest talk, about his ideals of what the University was yet to be, and his hope for their fulfillment; of economy and judicious living; and of endeavor to be of use to the world. It was a privilege to stand there listening. He appealed to each one of us individually. We could not know then how few more such opportunities we were to have. When he had finished, the dining-room doors slid back it was a put-up job, that serenade and it was Mrs. Stanford’s turn. After the supper, we gathered for a little personal talk with both of them, then we had some more mandolin music, and Baker sang ‘Suwanee River’ to Capron’s accompaniment.

“That evening brought the Founders pretty close to the crowd. It was a good thing to have happen, it began things right. Then, you know, he died suddenly, in vacation. I was in Yosemite. When term opened, it was hard to get used to seeing her driving around the campus alone. I don’t think any of the people who came after those early days can ever be so loyal to the Founders, to the person of one and the memory of the other, as we are. I’m sure none of us who went over serenading that night will ever forget it. It’s one of the Pioneer memories.”

Both graduates were looking into the fire. Freshman Haviland snored softly in the window seat. The eyes of the rest of the chapter were fastened on the chafing-dish. Shirlock’s story had seemed pretty long and the rarebit sent out a tantalizing odor.

Duncan called out, “Supper’s ready, children,” and the heated plates came clattering up from the hearth, bringing the visitors back from the far echoes of their own beginnings to the noisy unconcern of a Freshman year that knew a kind, white-bearded face from pictures only, and never could understand.